


in tune with the bass strings

by Melomaniac



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (technically) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dance, Angst free for you and me, British English, Denial of Feelings, Drarry, Feelings Realization, Five Years Later, Flirting, Happy Ending, M/M, Magical Botanist Narcissa Malfoy (Mentioned), Mutual Pining, No Angst, No Smut, Pansy Knows All, Pining Draco Malfoy, Pining Harry Potter, Post Hogwarts AU, Queen Pansy, Sassy Pansy, Swing Dancing, Teacher Harry, drink every time i mention their eyes, spinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 13:50:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12343950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melomaniac/pseuds/Melomaniac
Summary: Very aware of the fact that he still hadn’t replied and had been staring at Potter for far longer than what was socially acceptable, he blurted out the first thing that popped into his head.“You look terrible,” Draco said, “Didn’t you wear that dreadful outfit last time?”The sad thing was that Potter didn’t even look shocked anymore. Instead, he laughed and nodded a little, smiling even more fondly. “You look fantastic.”“I know.”In which there is a competition to win, feelings to deny, a dance, a kiss, and a future.





	in tune with the bass strings

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the song By The Pond by Awake The Rapper, which has nothing to do with this fic to be honest but I felt it fitted.
> 
> I was inspired to write this after watching [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNMnfTyc4Vg&index=4&list=PLwCpaXgomg6WdnelOBv1RNg4hMUS1JIrB), which I suggest you watch too; not only are the dancers incredibly talented, but the dances in this fic are (supposed to be) that of the first couple. Also, fair warning, as much as I adore watching swing dance performances on youtube, I do not know any dance terminology, so most of what I wrote dance-wise is super vague!
> 
> Hopefully though, despite this fic's faults, you enjoy reading it. Feel free to leave a comment, whether it's criticism, or suggestions for improving my writing in the future, or mindless squeeing! I'll even take all three.

“Potter’s here again.”

Draco looked up at Pansy reluctantly from where he knelt, re-tying his shoelaces for the third time that evening. She was leaning gracefully against the stage, elbows raised onto it, focused on something (someone) in the audience. He followed her pointed gaze to where it lay, on Potter, who grinned when his own wandering gaze immediately singled out Draco. Draco looked away. “Of course he is,” he muttered, tugging at the knot of his laces with newfound vigour.

“I’d say you seem surprised but we both know I’d be lying,” Pansy commented drily. She smoothed some invisible dirt off of her immaculate black dress as she pushed herself off of the stage and turned away from the audience to fully face her partner. He and Pansy were the first pair up to dance, so they stood at the end of the line of four other partners, all leaning slightly on the stage.

Draco frowned absently as he stood up. “I have no idea why he insists on showing up to every single one of our performances,” he said, mostly to himself.

“ _I_ might have an idea why he shows up,” Pansy pursed her lips thoughtfully, “but it’s not as if he’s come to every competition. He missed quite a few at the beginning, and he _has_ missed a couple since.”

“They don’t count.”

“They still count even if we don’t win.”

“They don’t count if I don’t count them.”

Pansy smirked. “You know, I also have a few ideas on why we lost those _specific_ few.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You and your ideas.”

“My ideas are excellent, dear, even if you don’t appreciate them.”

“Thankfully it isn’t my job to appreciate them. _That_ thrilling task goes to Zabini,” Draco sneered. He tilted his head in the direction of Blaise, who stood next to Potter, and watched as Pansy turned to find him looking back at her. She smiled widely when her husband winked at her.

“Urgh,” Draco gagged. “You two are disgusting.”

“I’m sure there will be many opportunities for you to be disgusting sometime soon,” Pansy responded, when she finally stopped making eyes at Blaise from across the room.

Draco frowned, confused. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“Nothing, nothing,” she protested innocently, “Oh look, we’ll be starting in a moment.”

Draco looked up at the stage where the band was organising itself in such a way that they seemed ready, successfully distracted. The audience too was beginning to sit down and quietening itself as the lead singer moved into place. Unwillingly, Draco found himself seeking out Potter. He knew where the other man would be sitting, or at least where he would try to sit: front row, dead centre.

He found Potter sitting exactly where he thought, with his legs crossed, and his forearms pressed against his thighs. He was tapping his knees absently as he stared at the smooth dance floor with a curious frown. Draco felt a smile tugging at his lips. Merlin, what an odd man, he thought, observing with amusement that Potter was even wearing the same outfit as he had last time. His hoodie was baggy and clearly quite old, forest green fading at the elbows, and his jeans too, though well fitting, sported gaping holes at the knees. Last month, when Draco and Pansy had performed at a lindy hop gala, he had spotted Potter there too, wearing the same clothes.

He hadn’t brushed his hair for _that_ event either. Now, his hair was as messy as it had been a month ago, sticking up at the oddest of angles, looking like the worst combination of windswept and just-fucked and _merlin_ it was distracting. Potter was distracting.

The music began to play. He acknowledged it in the back of his mind, but was too focused on Potter and his terrible fashion sense to care.

“Draco, you’re distracted. We’re starting. Grab my waist,” Pansy interrupted his thoughts softly. Draco pulled his gaze from Potter, who, as the steady tapping of the drum ripped through the room, had looked up with those agonisingly green eyes to stare once more at him. Those eyes had sparkled with amusement, as if Potter knew how they affected him, how his very presence affected his performance. Oh, he was going to _pay_ for distracting Draco just before a dance.

“Obviously,” Draco bit back as he wrapped his hands around Pansy’s waist, “Stay close to me this time. As close as you can.”

He was already reaching out to her when she replied, amused, “Ah, so we’re making it sexy.”

Draco spun Pansy, before pulling her in close, smiling as her arms immediately wrapped themselves around his neck. He felt a swell of happiness that he could dance with someone who knew him as well as Pansy did.

He dipped his partner, feeling the strains of the trumpet tear through him as he pulled her back up, twisting them and moulding them up and down across the floor. As he spun Pansy in and out once more, aligning their feet so they could parade down the space, their heads high, his heart beating out a rhythm – he felt a familiar peace come upon him.

After the war, he reflected – even as he manoeuvred himself and Pansy in such a way that Potter would surely be unable to look away – he had felt lost. The world he had known had been proven time and time again to be false, and frankly Draco had been reluctant to try and ignore the evidence steadily stacking up against his (previous) beliefs for any longer.

His father, mad with fear that the Dark Lord would come back to punish himself and his family, had practically begged to be sent to Azkaban. His mother, in true Black family fashion, had held her head high and returned to the world not as a pure-blood trophy wife, but as a magical botanist, claiming that she had always had a passion for flowers, nature and other beautiful things. Draco had… well, he hadn’t known what to do with himself. He was talented, yes, and intelligent, yes, and had enough remaining integrity thanks to Potter’s words about him at his trial that many wizarding businesses would take him on if he asked, yes, but he felt hesitant to _commit_ to anything. Especially to anything _magical_.

As Pansy executed a small jump, kicking backwards into the air, he remembered his hesitancy. Looking back, he felt that in the end it had been for the best. After all, if he hadn’t been so disillusioned with pure-blood prejudices – so fed up with the magical world in general and the careers it offered – he would never had ventured out into the muggle world with an equally disillusioned Pansy. He never would have passed a dance studio. He never would have gone in and participated in a swing dance workshop. He never would have loved it.

And now, at 23, he had been dancing for five years. For three of those years, he had been competing and performing with Pansy at galas and assorted events. For one and a half of those years, Potter had been coming to watch.

His and Pansy’s time on the floor was almost up, so he made a motion to indicate to her that he was going to spin her out before they left. She leant up to his ear just before he did so and whispered, “A little more.”

Draco stifled a smile before it could break his mask of concentration. He complied, and stepped forward a few steps after the spin, upper body leaning back slightly so that Pansy could lift herself, and appear to float backwards across the floor, carried by his strength. He felt the brush of her legs as she kicked up and down before he stepped backwards again so that they could leave the performance area.

From over the top of Pansy’s head, he caught Potter’s gaze. It was intensely focused. It seemed to _burn_ with – with what? What was that, pride? Fondness? Some awful combination of the two? He raised his right eyebrow elegantly as if to question it.

Pansy was pulling herself upright again by gripping onto Draco’s shoulders when Potter answered. He answered in a curious way; not with words, not even with a certain look about his eyes, but by continuing to stare at him and only him, even as the next pair began to dance. That was answer enough, _though merlin knows what it means_ , Draco thought.

(Maybe he was looking forward to their dance later.)

Finally, he and Pansy were waiting to dance again. They leant once more against the stage, though this time much further down it, at the opposite end of the line of partners. They would be up for their second run in a couple of minutes.

Draco was determined to watch the other dancers dance. To take mental notes of their strengths and weaknesses. To conspire with Pansy about their next moves. He was determined to _not_ just stare at Potter like he did _every_ competition the man was present for. Just because he had strong features, and dark skin, and wild eyes and a whole host of other things Draco found inordinately attractive, it didn’t mean he had to continue _gazing_ at him from across the dance floor. Not when he had a competition to win. Not even when Potter insisted on staring back at him with something akin to challenge in his eyes.

“Merlin, I hate that man,” he muttered.

Pansy rolled her eyes and nudged him up the stage as the current couple left the floor. “You hate Harry Potter as much as Harry Potter hates you.”

“Intensely? With the fire of years of childhood torment and suffering?” Draco asked, semi-hopefully.

“No,” she smiled, though it was more placating than amused, “Not even slightly when compared to the other feelings involved – an atrocious mix of fascination and desire.”

He chose to ignore the second part of her words. “I’m not fascinated by Potter.”

Pansy snorted. “Sure. And he’s not fascinated by you.”

“He _isn’t_.”

She turned and gave him a judging look, eyebrow raised delicately. “Draco. Dear. Darling. You poor, simple boy. Haven’t you seen the way he’s looking at you?” She punctuated her words with a subtle tilt of her head in Potter’s direction.

Draco reluctantly complied and looked at the other man – but only out of the corner of his eye. Potter was still staring directly at him, leaning forward with his head resting in his hands, looking for all the world as if the only thing stopping him from getting up and stomping over to stand by Draco was grudging respect for the dancers between them.

Draco’s brain stuttered to a halt. “He looks angry. I’m sure he’s plotting my doom.”

Pansy groaned and began to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I give up,” she muttered, “I am actually done with this. I don’t care what Blaise says, you two idiots can work this out by yourselves. I am _done_ playing matchmaker!”

“You’re done doing _what_?” Draco asked, irritated.

Instead of answering his question, Pansy just sighed, shaking her head and pushing Draco up the queue once more. Whether or not it was her aim, Draco was sufficiently distracted from looking at Potter. However, quite unfortunately, he was now too busy wondering about what Pansy meant.

What did she mean ‘playing matchmaker’? What was there to play ‘matchmaker’ for? Sure, he found Potter attractive, but who wouldn’t? And so what if there was the smallest possibility that Potter might find _him_ attractive? Maybe he just had an appreciation for pale skin and sharp cheekbones. And so what if Draco’s feelings went a little bit – a tiny bit – deeper than an appreciation for lunatics with terrible hair? So what if a part of him had a fondness for the way Potter’s smile lifted up more on the left than the right, or his terrible sense of humour, or his relentless snark, or his intolerable bravery, or the way he tapped his fingers against his knee, or how his eyes lit up when Draco and Pansy won a competition, or – oh.

Oh, _merlin_. His feelings for Potter _did_ go deeper. Quite a lot deeper, in fact.

 _Focus_ , Draco thought, cursing himself. Potter wouldn’t want him anyway. Not like that. And that was fine.

Damn. He was really distracted now.

“Draco.” Pansy frowned as she pulled him further up the queue with her. She had just watched the most interesting kaleidoscope of emotions flash across her partner’s face, leaving him glaring at the floor and biting distractedly on his lower lip. “Draco,” she tried again.

He looked up, eyes shining. “Pansy… I just had the most terrible realisation.”

Pansy squinted. “Now is not the time for another one of your dramatic moments, dear. We’re up next,” she gestured to the dancers who were just beginning, as another couple left the floor, “And I need you focused.”

Draco gaped. “But–“

“Shush. Not now. Wrap your arm around my waist, and grab my hand.”

Draco did so, on autopilot, barely noticing as Pansy continued to whisper instructions into his ear. From where he stood he had a clear view of Potter, the only thing between them the movement of two bodies back and forth across the dancefloor, painted in shadow. Blatantly, he stared, and Potter stared back.

“He’s still not looked away,” he murmured, only half for Pansy’s benefit, the gears in his brain beginning to turn. Pansy ignored him in favour of tapping her feet in time with the music. It was almost their time to dance again, and she wanted to get a feel for the beat once more. After a light kick to the ankle, Draco followed suit. The couple left the floor. They began to step forward.

In the seconds it took to do so, Draco maintained eye contact with Potter. The room seemed to go silent, fizzling out into white noise, and time stretched out to infinity. He almost felt as if he could feel the other man’s gaze on his cheek, a gentle caress or even a playful tug on his hair. Draco wanted to shiver. He wanted to run. Something was happening here and he couldn’t control it. He was torn between feeling confused, and feeling powerful. There was a gulf between his heart and his mind: between what he wanted, what he was feeling, what he was _seeing_.

And yet it fuelled him; the thought that Potter was as enthralled by Draco as Draco was by him.

So as the music rushed back into his ears, his _heart_ was in tune with the bass strings, and his body was an instrument to be played – beautifully. Every inch of him was in contact with Pansy. She had remembered his earlier instructions: _stay close, we’re making it sexy_.

He made sure to swing his hips with extra vigour, to curve his neck into a glorious arch. Pansy spun out from him and as he pulled her back to his body, the buttons of his white shirt straining, he made sure to meet Potter’s gaze in the crowd. Potter sat so close to the dancefloor that he was caught within the white rings of the spotlights. Potter sat so close Draco could surely brush against him with the edge of his shoes if he so wished. There was an extra kick in his step at the thought. Pansy followed suit, bouncing back and forth in time with him. He pushed forward, and she gracefully lifted her leg behind her, allowing him to mould her against him with each of their spins.

Smiling, Draco danced, and felt the strain of seventeen years loosen within him, evaporating into nothingness in the air above. This was what he _adored_ about swing – the energy, and the freedom that came from throwing every inch of himself into the movement. It was the most perfect antithesis of pureblood society with all its rules and restrictions and limits.

Dipping Pansy to the floor gave him the excellent opportunity to bend at the waist a little, arm lifting above him and accentuating the vast distance between his hands, one attached still to Pansy’s on her hip. He wanted to be a clean line. A suggestion of something to come. An image of grace and power and beauty. He wanted to win. He wanted Potter to want him.

Before he could even comprehend it, it was time to exit the floor, leaving the remaining dancers to perform _their_ second stretch before they would all step out and dance together in their final chance to win over the judges. His chest heaved from the exertion as he led Pansy and himself away. They took their place once more at the end of the line.

“Draco, that felt amazing! There’s no way we won’t win after that!” Pansy cried excitedly, grasping tighter onto her partner’s arm and bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. Draco silently agreed. That _had_ felt amazing. But quite importantly, he’d had an epiphany about Potter, and he simply _had_ to tell Pansy.

He made an attempt to remove her hands from him but she was already too distracted to notice. From across the floor, she had caught Blaise’s eye. He winked roguishly. She grinned back.

“Pansy,” he hissed, trying to get her attention, “Pansy look at me!”

With a heavy sigh, she dragged her gaze away from her husband. “What?”

“I fancy Potter!”

Pansy raised her eyebrows. “Really. What an amazing discovery. No one could have predicted this,” she deadpanned.

Draco frowned. “Don’t sass me Parkinson. This is serious.”

Pansy sobered. “I know, sweetie, I know. But look at it from my perspective,” she began with a longsuffering sigh, “You consistently perform better when Potter shows up to watch. You literally can’t help yourself from staring at Potter when you’re in the same room, and Potter can’t help but stare back. After every competition we have, you make a point to dance with him for at least two songs – even though he has no coordination whatsoever – in what I can only imagine is the most sexually frustrating ten minutes of your day. Any time you talk about him, your eyes glitter – they _glitter_ Draco!” Pansy paused dramatically, enjoying Draco’s expression of horrified realisation. “For me and everyone else around you this past year it has been painfully obvious that you are pining over Potter. The only person who hasn’t realised it is _you_.”

Draco spluttered. “Everyone knows?”

“You’re about as subtle as a Hufflepuff.”

“And that’s a yes?”

“That’s an _enthusiastic_ yes; everyone knows.”

“Even…” Draco trailed off, eyes flickering to where Potter still sat. This time he was watching the _other_ dancers with a frown.

“Actually, I think he _might_ know. What a mad world we live in where you’re less emotionally cognisant than _Harry Potter_.”

At this, Draco slumped where he stood. Pansy rolled her eyes, and was about to turn back to watch the next pair, when she noticed him frown suddenly and stiffen up once more. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he muttered, “I need to get rid of these meddlesome feelings before they make me weak.”

“You can’t just get rid of your feelings, dear,” Pansy argued, sensing a sudden and wholly unnecessary change in Draco’s mindset.

“I can try,” he said stubbornly.

Pansy’s lips quirked in a smile. It was almost sympathetic. “Then you can fail.”

He began to open and close his mouth aimlessly, searching for an argument that would hold up. Deciding to save him the trouble, Pansy spoke up once more. “Look, if the _realisation_ of your gigantic crush on Potter is what made _that_ performance just happen, then clearly what they’re doing is far from weakening you. They make you strong, because they make you want to be strong. I, for one, am very much of the opinion that, _when_ we win, you go lead him off into a quiet room and either confess your undying love for each other,” she paused, “or maybe just shag.”

Draco’s eyes widened impossibly, gobsmacked, but finally there was the beginning of a smile at the corners of his lips. “Collegiate?” he asked, giving in. Pansy was convincing when she wanted to be.

“Horizontal,” she smirked, “I knew you’d come to agree with me.” They shared a familial smile.

“Right, well that’s enough of that,” Draco declared, “After this couple it’s time for us all to head back onto the floor.” Draco turned to face the audience, wrapping his arm around Pansy’s waist. She leant into him and started to tap her feet in time with the music.

A familiar energy was rising within him. The excitement of dancing in front of a crowd, and in front of Potter, was filling his chest with a growing bubble of vibrating light. The colour of the dancefloor, of the stage curtains, of the bright white of one of the dancers’ dress – all were vibrant. Everything was building. The world was coming alive before him. Even the music seemed to be growing louder and louder, especially when his eyes, involuntarily seeking out a certain someone, met green.

“Do you feel that?” he murmured to Pansy, his gaze locked on Potter.

When she spoke, leaning heavily into him, her hips moving with Draco’s and the music, her smirk was audible. “Just like magic.”

Draco knew she would be looking straight at Blaise. It occurred to him just how right she had been about feelings; they were strengthening him, just as Pansy’s love for Blaise strengthened her. It wasn’t weakness to want somebody. (It wasn’t weakness to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was wanted back.)

In near perfect synchronisation, Draco and Pansy, along with every other couple, stepped forward, joining the current pair on the floor. The band’s singer’s piercing voice trilled and Pansy instinctively began to spin. Draco removed his arms from her and watched the flare of her skirt ripple in time with each turn of her feet.

He reached out to Pansy when she got too close to the audience, and laughed a little when her feet slipped enough to send her off balance. Just in time, he grabbed hold of her waist and pulled her into his arms.

“Nice one, Parkinson,” he snickered under his breath as he moved them in time with the music.

She pouted, but there was amusement to it. “That was your fault and you know it. You grabbed me too quickly.”

“Sure,” Draco fired back, kicking out his left foot with a twist, “Whatever you say.” He spun Pansy under his arm, back out, back in with an easy tug on _her_ arm and a flourish. “I can’t believe I forget – “ he shifted side to side with a slight jump as Pansy twirled again out of his arms, “ – how much fun this is.”

Pansy was keeping herself at arms distance for this part. “How can you forget _this_?”

They moved with ease inside the imaginary box of space they had created for themselves, Draco manipulating Pansy’s movement with each turn of her waist with his hands, spinning her out and in and over and over. He always wondered how she managed to avoid dizziness with all those rotations she insisted upon. _I like how it makes me feel_ , she always replied, when he asked.

“I have no idea,” he continued as she moved past him, her back pressed to his arm in another one of those complicated moments she so loved, “I get so focused sometimes on the winning that…” He trailed off.

The dance was drawing to a close already; the music was beating out frantically, and all of the partners were pulling out their best and most impressive moves. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see arms flying everywhere, bodies pressed close together, legs outstretched, and heels kicked high into the air – but he could also see Potter. He could always see Potter. It was as if he had a sixth sense for where the other man would be. Even as Draco himself spun in time with Pansy, his gaze seemed to focus in on Potter, who sat in the audience with his own gaze trained on Draco.

The singer held a long and crooning note, and Draco rolled his hips against Pansy’s, watching with well-concealed delight when Potter visibly swallowed, before wetting his lips. Deliberately, he dragged Pansy up against his body from where she had lowered herself to the floor. With a casual wink thrown in Potter’s direction, Draco spun on his heels and shaped Pansy around him.

Finally, the music was building to its conclusion, the saxophone belting out an intense cry and the singer battling against it to be heard. Pansy’s skirt rippled as she completed her final set of spins. Her path was led by Draco, whose jacket sleeves had rolled up his arms by a few inches, exposing the black head of the snake of his dark mark. He had long learned to be less afraid of it. There was still shame within him – and there always would be, he thought – but that mark did not define him, and that fact had never been more obvious than in that moment, where the band played, where Pansy lifted herself up in his arms with a flamboyant flick of her legs, where Potter stared at him with fascination in his eyes.

With a sudden crash the music ended, just as Draco dipped Pansy to the floor, one of her legs sandwiched between his thighs and the other outstretched in Blaise’s direction. Draco’s chest heaved from the exertion, as did Pansy’s.

Very quickly the audience broke out into enthusiastic clapping and cheering. Draco held Pansy in place for another moment, basking in the noise, before pulling her up into standing. Immediately, she launched herself into Draco’s arms. Her grasp around his neck was tight as she hugged him in a rare display of affection. Her grin was painfully bright as she squealed into his chest.

“Draco! That was amazing! That might have been our best performance yet!” she laughed as she pulled back to look at him directly.

He smiled back at her just as brightly. “More importantly, that might just have been the most fun I’ve had dancing since we started this,” he replied.

Pansy shook her head slightly. “Every time we dance it’s fun. Sometimes you just need to let yourself go and enjoy it.”

She opened her mouth as if to continue when the voice of the event’s announcer came in over the speakers, asking the dancers to return to the side of the stage. They did so reluctantly. The announcer stood behind the microphone, clapping along with the audience and still talking. Draco and Pansy had heard this kind of speech a hundred times. They ignored it, mostly. They knew what would be coming next.

Now every couple had performed, all they had to do was wait for the judges to decide who won, so the organisers would ask the band to play some more music and let the audience entertain themselves in the interim. Most would head onto the dancefloor, Draco included.

This was a recent development. Before Potter started showing up, Draco would usually find a quiet room to sit in alone, to give himself a chance to think and catch his breath. He used to enjoy this time. Now though… now Draco had the bad habit of dancing with Harry Potter. He had no idea when or why it had started.

That was a lie, of course; he knew exactly why it started, and could mark the date on a calendar blindfolded.

A year ago, after a competition, while the judges were deciding who would win and the band was distracting the audience, Potter approached Draco just before he could disappear and asked him for a dance. Draco had been so shocked he had said yes before he could think. He had allowed Potter to lead him onto the floor and had only really snapped back to reality when Potter failed terribly at trying to lead. Draco then proceeded to insult his dance skills (or lack thereof) and took charge of the dance himself. From that point it improved, though only marginally. Potter truly was an awful dancer.

And despite that – despite the fact that Potter made dancing look so _difficult_ – since that first time, every single time the man asked him for a dance, Draco said yes.

Lost in thought, he wandered over to a nearby wall, pushing through the gathering crowd on the dancefloor. He intended to have a short break before being inevitably asked to dance once more.

Pansy, with a parting squeeze of his arm, left his side almost immediately in favour of her husband. Blaise met her halfway and caught her in his arms as she turned from Draco, teasingly pulling her to the edges of the room, where they would snog frantically before the results were announced. It was, Draco thought with a shudder, a disgusting display he would avoid looking too closely at. He made sure the wall he was leaning against was far from them.

It was strange. Usually, he didn’t feel this way before Potter found him. Usually he felt impatient, like every person in the crowd before him was Potter in disguise, watching him wait. Today, however, he felt introspective and calm. In his mind he was reliving every exchange with Potter he’d had in the last year and a half – every dance, every gaze, every conversation full of teasing and insults and information. He was putting together the pieces of the puzzle. He was slowly realising there was a pattern, both in how he reacted and in how Potter behaved.

In his mind, he could see each and every instance of that uneven quirk of Potter’s lips, or his stumbling when they danced – even the brightening of his eyes when he turned to face Draco. Echoing in his ear, he could hear the surprised amusement in Potter’s laugh when Draco made a joke at his own expense. The memory alone of the warmth in Potter’s gaze was enough to send a shiver down his spine.

Perhaps… it was possible…

“Malfoy.”

Draco slowly looked up. All sense of calm abandoned him; it was Potter.

Potter stood confidently with his arms hanging loosely at his sides. His grin was fond and level at the edges for once, revealing the dimples in his cheeks, which were tinted red in the orange light. At once, he looked wholesome and dishevelled, like he had just run a mile and every part of him was telling the tale. His hair had far surpassed artfully tousled and had entered the territory of plain _messy_. Draco shouldn’t have found it as attractive as he did. It was just untidy hair, after all.

And the sleeves of his hoodie _were_ far too long, Draco thought, another point against him. He felt the urge to pull them up.

Up close, he was certain that Potter was wearing the same hoodie as last time and that he was _definitely_ wearing the same jeans too. He was torn between feeling indignant that Potter insisted on wearing something so old and scruffy, or admiring the way they hugged his hips and exposed the muscle of his legs through the holes.

Very aware of the fact that he still hadn’t replied and had been staring at Potter for far longer than what was socially acceptable, he blurted out the first thing that popped into his head.

“You look terrible,” Draco said, “Didn’t you wear that dreadful outfit last time?”

The sad thing was that Potter didn’t even look shocked anymore. Instead, he laughed and nodded a little, smiling even more fondly. “You look fantastic.”

“I know.” Draco’s hands were _shaking_. His fingers itched to reach out and _fix_ that mop of dark hair. Standing so close to Potter all of a sudden was more intoxicating than he could have predicted. Now that he was aware of the extent of his feelings for the man, he could hardly think. What little thought he had left was dedicated to those green eyes, that awful hoodie, and the man both belonged to.

At the very least, Potter was equally consumed with thoughts of _Draco_. If Draco had wanted to, if they were alone, he could have pressed his ear against Potter’s chest and listened to his heart drown.

Potter opened his mouth, closed it, and finally spoke. “Will you dance with me? I mean, I know I’m terrible, and you’re amazing and I don’t see why you’d want to dance with _me_ after what you just did but – “ aware of his rambling, Potter cut himself off, and took a deep breath before continuing. “Will you dance with me anyway?”

He did this every time, the idiot. “Potter, don’t be stupid,” Draco sighed, “Of course I will.”

Potter ducked his head, but not before Draco could spot the signs of a beaming smile growing on his lips. He detached himself from the wall and stepped forward. As he reached for the other man’s hand, he noticed it was shaking too.

He grinned and he led Potter over to the dancefloor, spotting an opportunity to tease. “Are you nervous, Potter?” he asked innocently.

Potter rolled his eyes and placed his empty hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I’m always nervous around you, Malfoy,” he confessed.

“And why’s that? Are you awed by my presence? Are you,” Draco paused, “scared, perhaps?”

“Scared? Never.”

“Awed it is then.”

“Well, of course I’m awed. The way you dance is…” Potter trailed off, seemingly lost in thought, as Draco slowly lifted the hand still linked to his into place. Potter stared at the connection between them and instinctively tightened his grip. “But anyway, that’s not why I’m nervous,” he continued, shakily.

Draco tilted his head, looking very much like a curious bird. “Then why?”

Potter licked his lips and stepped closer. Distantly, Draco heard the band introduce themselves again, ready to play for the audience, who at the announcement seemed to get louder.

In fact, it was loud enough now that Potter had an excuse to lean in and press his body fractionally closer, tilting his head up to speak into Draco’s ear. Their skin was so close to touching that he could taste it. He could lean forward and taste the softness of Potter’s neck if he so wished – and he did wish. He barely noticed the music begin to play.

“I think you know why.” This close, Potter’s voice was a deep vibration of hot air against his ear.

Every part of him trembled in response. “Maybe I do,” he admitted, “Maybe I want you to tell me anyway.” He heard the slight catch in Potter’s breath when he pulled him even closer by the waist.

They started to dance.

It was harder to dance with a partner less skilled than Pansy, but it was not impossible, especially when Potter was not nearly as bad as he thought he was. After months of practice at various events with Draco, he was almost competent – at least with the basics. And with Potter it was only the basics that mattered. Dancing with him was not for a trophy. It was not for any sort of external victory. With Potter, all that mattered was the impossible warmth of the body snug against his own.

And he was _impossibly_ warm. Or maybe that was just in his head.

Either way, when Potter stumbled a little on the first spin, and pressed himself a little too close afterwards, it was hard for Draco to care.

“You know,” he began, swinging Potter out, then back in, “Someday you could be quite good at this.”

Potter laughed breathlessly. “I think I’ll leave the dancing to you. Dealing with the kids at Hogwarts is enough for me.”

“Oh? McGonagall still pays you to wrangle her tiny monsters?”

“Yes Malfoy, she still pays me _to teach defence_. You don’t have to sound so appalled every time you ask,” Potter snickered, “And the kids aren’t that bad.”

Draco raised an eyebrow and spun him around so that his chest was pressed against Potter’s back. “If they’re anything like we were, then yes, they are,” he murmured into the other man’s ear.

Potter shivered. “We were… an extreme.”

“We were certainly something.”

The pair swayed in time with the music for a few beats, a brief silence engulfing them. Draco could not see Potter’s face and didn’t try to, but he watched his neck as he swallowed and clenched his jaw. Draco could tell he was about to speak.

“I like to think,” Potter began, spinning suddenly to face him once more, “That we’ve moved _far_ past that.” In an uncharacteristic bout of confidence, Potter rolled his hips sensually. His arm slid along Draco’s shoulder until his hand was cupping the other man’s neck, his fingers teasingly brushing the exposed skin there.

Despite himself, Draco could feel his heart begin to beat faster. His gaze, which had followed the progression of Potter’s wandering hand with interest, was now focused on the pair of startlingly green eyes in front of him. Though they were focused on his eyes, he felt as if they were seeing every inch of him – as if they knew every inch of him, and could label every part blindfolded.

A stare like that, Draco thought, could only ever mean one thing. He wanted to understand it. “Potter,” he licked his lips, “tell me something.”

It wasn’t a request. Most things with Draco weren’t. “What?” Potter questioned, leaning closer.

Draco was running entirely on autopilot by this point. So lost in the very idea of the man opposite him, he barely noticed the song come to a close, the dancing audience stopping to clap politely. He barely noticed the band start to play anew. “Tell me why I make you nervous.”

Potter smiled, like he knew a secret Draco didn’t. Like he knew exactly what Draco wanted. “Come with me,” he said, tilting his head towards the exit of the hall.

“I need to stay.”

“Why?”

Draco frowned. “To find out if Pansy and I won or not.”

“Malfoy. I, for one, have no doubt you won.” Potter’s voice was soft, coaxing. Steadily, he lifted his hand from Draco’s shoulder and used it to grasp Draco’s other hand. They stood, stationary in the middle of the dancing crowd, hands joined and pressed between them. “Come with me.”

How could he say no?

He let Potter lead him off the floor, across the room, out of the door, down the corridor – until they were stepping outside through a half propped open fire exit. The sudden blast of icy winter air caused the pair to shiver. Being so hot in the dancehall had made Draco forget what it was like to be cold. He wrapped his arms around himself, or tried to before he realised his hand was still connected to Potter’s. He could have pulled away. He should have; he was cold, and had an excuse.

Instead, he found himself staring down at where their fingers overlapped, light against dark, silent except for the whisper of his breath as he breathed in and out. In and out.

Potter moved them over to lean against the brick wall next to the fire exit. He did not look at Draco, but then again, Draco did not look at him. Both men stared out into the night, quite content all of a sudden to simply share it together.

When Potter did start to speak, it was quiet, even in the silence. “You make me _really_ nervous, almost constantly. Right now, for example, I know that my palms are probably sweatier than is _healthy_ , and that I’m warm even though it’s fucking freezing out here – “ he paused when Draco huffed out a laugh.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Potter’s head turn to face him. Draco did not look up from the floor. “It _is_ ‘fucking freezing’ right now, Potter. Why on earth did you bring us out _here_?” he complained lightly.

Potter laughed. “See, like that! Most people would be offended or something, but I’m – happy. Really happy just being with you, actually. And that’s what makes me nervous.”

“Oh?” Draco gave in and shifted against the wall to face Potter, who was staring at him solemnly. Even in the dark his eyes were bright.

“And sometimes, I think about what I could do to make myself more _happy_ , and less _nervous_ ,” Potter murmured, moving himself along the wall and closer to Draco, who subconsciously copied his movements.

“Really?” he breathed, “And what conclusions do you come to? What would make you happy?” He knew what he wanted to hear. In fact, he was desperate for it – hungry for those words, or any words, really. So when he was met with a deep silence – and no words – he moved himself even closer to Potter, convinced the man had whispered them, and Draco just hadn’t heard.

Now, the distance between them was so insignificant, it would take a light gust of wind at most to close it. Draco’s gaze instinctively flickered between Potter’s eyes and his lips. They were parted, and chapped, and bitten red against his skin, and hopelessly inviting. As much as Draco desperately wanted to reach forward and _bite_ , there was a certain pleasure in denying himself. He wanted to savour the tension in his bones. He wanted to enjoy it.

But Potter, it seemed, was much more impatient. He crossed the final gap, and kissed him. _Oh_.

It was surprisingly soft. Potter was gentle, reaching up to stroke Draco’s cheek with his thumb. After all the tension of the last few moments, Draco had expected _speed_ : heat and pressure and passion. Not that there was a lack of these things. The kiss was plenty hot; in fact, Potter’s mouth was nothing _but_ heat in the icy cold of the outdoors, and left scorch marks against his skin. There was pressure too, _delicious_ pressure, at once numbing and setting alight the nerves in his own lips, tempting him to press back against them. And when it came to passion, there was almost too much for Draco to handle. He felt he was drowning in it. He couldn’t catch his breath. Each time he tried, Potter delivered a kiss even softer, even more passionate, and it drew him back in.

So, Draco distantly thought, the kiss was surprisingly soft because it was an exchange. It was a conversation. This was a kiss that said _hello, let’s take this slow, can you feel what I feel?_. The kiss was tender, because the intent was tender.

Leisurely, they broke apart. Draco couldn’t stop himself from trying to chase after the other man’s mouth. Once more, he glanced up, and met Potter’s gaze.

It was _heartbreakingly_ affectionate. “You,” Potter breathed, “ _You_ would make me happy. You’d make me feel other things too, of course; I can see myself being pissed off a lot, and confused, and amazed, and horrified, and maybe even someday in love.” Suddenly, he stopped, swallowed, and looked at Draco with something like hope. “I _can’t stop_ thinking about how happy it would make me if you felt the same way. And I’m almost one hundred percent certain you _do_ feel the same.”

Draco couldn’t speak. For once, he didn’t know what to say. There was so much in him, so much he wanted Potter to know, and none of it was making any sense. Not a thought in his head was ready to be real. He wanted… he wanted…

Potter was already beginning to look nervous again. His fingers started picking at his sleeves, which were still _too long_. Draco realised he was using both hands, and involuntarily his own twitched. He couldn’t remember when Potter had let go of his hand. Potter’s smile was fading, his head sinking back on his shoulders. He was closing in on himself. Draco had seen him do this so many times. He refused to let him backtrack and get the wrong impression and ruin this just because Draco wasn’t responding fast enough.

“Stop it,” he finally snapped. Potter’s head shot up, that hopeful stare returning. “Of course I feel the same, you idiot. Give a man some time to think!”

“Wh-?” Potter opened and closed his mouth. “Well if you feel the same way, what’s there to think about?” he demanded.

“A lot of things!” Draco reasoned, half frantic, “Whether or not to tell you, for one!”

Potter threw up his arms in exasperation. “You just told me!”

“And if you had given me time to think I would have told you anyway.”

“Then what’s the point of this whole argument!”

“There isn’t one,” Draco huffed in frustration, “You’re just being difficult.”

Potter raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “I’m being difficult? _I’m_ being difficult.”

Draco nodded primly. “You’re always difficult, Potter, it’s – “ he looked down suddenly, “It’s one of the reasons I like you so much. Very much against my own will.”

That was what did it; admitting to his feelings in such a manner felt like cutting at his heart with a blunt knife, and Potter knew that. Doing so meant more to them both than words alone could express.

He felt rather than saw Potter soften. All the tension in his body evaporated and that uneven smile Draco so adored slid back into place. Slowly, as if not to startle him, Potter stepped forward and reached out to Draco, who met him halfway. Their hands connected once more, but suddenly it didn’t feel like enough contact. Draco bit his lip and wondered whether he should stop there, before he decided he no longer cared what was proper and what wasn’t. He wanted to hold, and to be held.

He pushed apart their hands and wrapped his around Potter’s waist, encouraging him to do the same, until they were folded into each other’s arms. It was like coming home. “So. I like you, you like me,” Potter stated proudly.

Draco rolled his eyes and nudged his chin against Potter’s head fondly. “In very simple terms, yes,” he agreed.

“What do we do now?”

“Really, Potter, it’s not that difficult.”

“No?” Potter sounded curious. He pulled back far enough from Draco’s arms to look him in the eye.

“No,” Draco said firmly, “let’s see if you can guess the first step.”

Potter grinned widely, before schooling his expression and pretending to think. “Maybe I take you out on a date? A proper date, for once – one that isn’t just me staring at you and thinking about how pretty you are and how talented you are while you dance at a competition?”

“Hmm, that sounds acceptable,” Draco teased, “Tell me more about this date.”

“It could be dinner, somewhere expensive so I don’t offend your _delicate_ sensibilities, of course. It could even be next Friday, if you’re free?”

“I’m liking step one so far. And what, pray tell,” Draco licked his lips suggestively, “What do you think would happen after this date, if it went _particularly_ well.”

Potter’s gaze turned heated, and his smile sharpened. He tilted his head up slightly, baring his neck. “That would be up to you. Use your imagination."

“I’m struggling suddenly for ideas,” Draco fluttered his eyelashes, faux-innocent, “Maybe you could help me. Next Friday, perhaps?”

Potter’s arms around him tightened. His grin was almost blinding when he nodded with a jerk. He was trying desperately not to show just how eager he was, and failing miserably. Though he couldn’t see it himself, Draco was sure he looked exactly the same as Potter in that moment: smile wide, cheeks rosy – glowing with happiness.

Everything within him was overflowing, and everything in Potter was doing the same, and they were drowning in it. Neither could think of a moment they’d felt _more_ , all at once, in recent times. Even the adrenaline of winning a competition couldn’t compare.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Potter whispered.

Instead of saying anything – Draco simply leaned forward once more, and kissed him, reaching up to tangle his hands in that infuriating mane of messy hair. He poured _everything_ he felt into the kiss. Every doubt, every fear, every joy, every desire. He wanted Potter to know them _all_.

And Potter… _Harry_ smiled against his lips, and did the same.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can come fangirl with me on [tumblr](https://melo-maniac.tumblr.com/) if you feel like it!
> 
> Please don't repost without my permission, which I promise I am likely to give anyway.
> 
> In case you missed it, this fic (and all of the dancing within it) is based on [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNMnfTyc4Vg&index=4&list=PLwCpaXgomg6WdnelOBv1RNg4hMUS1JIrB), which I highly suggest you watch.


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